


Can't Say What I Mean

by saltstreets



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Bad Pick-Up Lines, English Premier League, I FINALLY WROTE AN ARSENAL FIC, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:10:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4855841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/pseuds/saltstreets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Olivier takes a liking to Mesut, or at least Mesut thinks he does. Olivier can be difficult to comprehend sometimes, whether due to the language barrier or just some innate aspect of his personality. Whenever Mesut talks to him he gets the distinct sense that he’s missing something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Say What I Mean

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a ridiculous little fic that I dreamt up months ago and am just getting around to finishing. I mostly just wanted to write Olive + bad pick-up lines.
> 
> Takes place during the 2013/2014 season, and the title is from the Kaiser Chiefs!

 

 

 

English, Mesut has decided, is a vindictive sort of language.

He doesn’t understand how German, a pleasantly sensible tongue with organised structure, clearly defined rules, and fairly simple pronunciation, lost out as the accepted global language to _English,_ which seems to be nothing more than a dense, prickly hedge of odds and ends stolen from various etymologic traditions with no respect for regular verbs or any kind of unified guidelines whatsoever.

 _Oh, you think you’ve got me figured out, do you?_ English seemed to say, smugly, _Think again._ And it would produce another list of exceptions to whatever grammatical rule Mesut had nearly got the hang of.

From a historical standpoint, Mesut understands why English is so proliferated. But from a practical one? He thinks the UN ought to pass a referendum that the hateful thing be relegated to its natural corners of the world.

But even that wouldn’t help him, he supposes glumly, seeing as he’s currently living and working in one of those corners.

Oh, he likes England well enough: he likes London despite the abrupt change of climate from sunny Madrid, and he doesn’t find the food half as bad as he’d thought he would after all the complaining Xabi had done. Driving on the left side of the road is a novelty that he thinks might never wear off, and he likes English films (although he sometimes breaks down and puts on German subtitles when available).

And of course, Arsenal. Mesut had been hesitant leaving Real because despite the fractures that had been plaguing the dressing room he had loved his little family there. He’d slotted in well, and while he hadn’t necessarily heard _bad_ things about English football (this was one aspect of the country that Xabi, in contrast to his opinions on the cuisine, could be relied upon to simply _gush_ about) he’d been worried about the inevitable transition period between joining the team and _joining_ the team.

In the end he needn’t have worried. Even if Per and Lukas hadn’t been there the arms of Arsenal had been wide open and infinitely welcoming (although the _hands_ of Arsenal were unfortunately also rather prone to ruffling his hair, an activity that Flamini later described as “delightful”).

But the language.

Mesut doesn’t know, maybe it’s just that he’s naturally bad at it, but English is like slogging through mud. He can understand it well enough to function on the pitch obviously and in the day-to-day interactions at restaurants or in shops, and can even decipher Wenger’s accented words without much trouble. He gets along alright if he’s spoken to slowly and with basic words, but it doesn’t help that most of the team is overly fond of rapid-fire dialogue based on mutual mockery. It’s difficult.

In any case, he likes Arsenal. He’s got Per and Lukas for German, and through a series of wild gestures and a broken mess of English and Spanish manages to befriend Flamini. It turns out to be a good move because one of the benefits of being ushered into the circle of Mathieu Flamini’s heart is life suddenly becomes mysteriously easy. Tickets appear for sold-out concerts. Booked restaurants produce tables. He doesn’t know how Flamini does it, but he suspects that he also doesn’t want to know. If there’s anyone on the team who has connections to the flipside of the legitimate business world, it’s Mathieu Flamini.

Another side effect of Flams deciding that he wants Mesut at his side is that Mesut starts going out with Arsenal’s French faction, and with them comes Olivier.

Olivier is a whirlwind of smiles and hair gel and _fire_ , scoring goals in match after match, confident and flippant and unmistakable.

He takes a liking to Mesut, or at least Mesut thinks he does. Olivier can be difficult to comprehend sometimes, whether due to the language barrier or just some innate aspect of his personality. Whenever Mesut talks to him he gets the distinct sense that he’s missing something.

The first time is before a match in October against Norwich City. He’s smiling to himself in the tunnel and Olivier steps beside him. “A smile, Mesut?”

Mesut shrugs. “I have a good feeling for this match.” He tells Olivier, still smiling. “I think I can score.”

Olivier looks at him, a pleased expression on his face, before he grins widely. “I think you could score,” he says, and winks. “I think you definitely could.”

There’s something in his intonation that implies some meaning that Mesut can’t quite grasp, so he just nods and smiles and lets the moment pass.

Olivier is right in the end anyway. Mesut scores twice.

 

 

The team has a charity event scheduled and a few of them have gone over Theo’s beforehand, for what Jack calls ‘pre-gaming’ in a loud and excited manner and Theo calls ‘just to hang out, honestly Jack I’m not letting you drink anything if you’re going to be like that’.

(“You can’t pre-game a charity dinner,” says Thomas in his best captain’s voice.

“You can pre-game _anything,_ ” Jack argues. “I’ll pre-game my own funeral, just you watch.”

“Yeah,” Wojciech says, eyebrows so sardonic they could succeed Jeremy Paxman as presenter on Newsnight, “just another way of saying he’s going to drink himself to death, innit Wilsh?”

“Oi, shut up.”)

As they’re leaving Theo’s to pile into their respective vehicles, Mesut pauses in front of the hall mirror to examine himself last minute.

Mesut isn’t by far the most fashion-conscious player on the team. Which isn’t to say that he has a poor dress sense, but that he doesn’t spend inordinate amounts of time picking out clothes and placing each individual hair on his head where he wants before going out. Unlike certain choice individuals he could mention. (Mesut had been developing a thesis about strikers and their seemingly universal desire to look perfect, but then he’d thought of Miro’s confused squint when Lukas had once tried to explain him the concept of a cummerbund, and had decided the theory still needed refining.)

So he’s not overly concerned with his appearance, but he still likes looking nice. He wants to make sure he’s photograph ready.

“Primping?” Theo says from behind him.

Mesut frowns. “Sorry?”

Theo flounders for a second on how to translate the word before going with, “You look great. It’s a good shirt.”

 “Yes, it is a nice shirt,” Olivier pipes up from across the room where he’s still collecting his things, “although you would look better without it.”

Theo snickers and rolls his eyes. Mesut is confused. “Does it not suit?”

“You look fine,” Theo assures him impatiently. “Come on, everyone’s waiting.”

Olivier frowns at Theo, who grins. “Better luck next time, Giroud,” he says inexplicably, and drags Mesut out the door.

 

 

It’s December and Mesut is finding himself thinking wistfully of Spanish winters. London doesn’t get as cold as Gelsenkirchen, but those years in Madrid, the mild breezes off the Mediterranean ensuring that the months of November through March were kind, had really spoiled him. He jumps in place, trying to warm up.

Santi grins at him. “Not like Madrid, is it?”

Mesut shakes his head and is trying to figure out how to convey the idea of _frostbite_ without actually knowing the English word for the concept when Olivier sidles over and waggles his eyebrows at him. “If you are cold you are welcome to share my coat,” he says, a teasing edge to his voice, fingers playfully unzipping his warm-up jacket a few inches.

Mesut frowns, forehead crinkling. “Thank you, mine is still very nice,” he says, wondering why Giroud thinks that his coat might be warmer than Mesut’s. “And you do need this, also. For your warm. Um, warmth. Your warmth.” He pats Olivier on the arm. “I can jump, this is good also.”

They hear Wenger call something out and Mesut turns towards the manager as practice begins proper. Behind him, Santi catches sight of Olivier’s expression and has to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

 

 

The thing about Olivier is that even though the man can be utterly exasperating both on and off the pitch, he’s so effortlessly charming that Mesut can’t quite find it in himself to dislike him.

They both score in the Newcastle game, but Mesut on a rebound after Olivier fails to pass to him and instead throws away a shot. After the match Mesut approaches him, albeit mildly as they _did,_ after all, win. “You can pass at me,” he says somewhat reproachfully, but Olivier just grins and throws an arm around him.

“We have both scored, no?” Olivier says, and then adds almost as an afterthought, “And I do. I makes passes at you all the time.” He’s got a grin playing around his lips as though he’s made some great joke and Mesut wrinkles his brow and says sardonically, “Of course you do. But not today when I am open and you shoot.”

“I’m sorry,” Olivier says apologetically, but the grin is still lurking. “I’ll try to make it up to you with more passes this evening.”

Mesut wrinkles his forehead again, this time in confusion. “We are going to the pub this evening, not to the pitch?” he lets his tone go up at the end in a question.

Olivier lets the grin out in full force and Mesut gets the feeling that he’s being laughed at. He doesn’t mind though; Olivier might be a lot of things but he wasn’t petty or mean. Being laughed at by Olivier usually meant that he had cracked himself up inside his own head and just couldn’t help it.

“That will not be a problem, my friend. I work around, as always. You can expect many passes from me.”

Mesut just rolls his eyes. Half the time Olivier seems to be having a conversation with himself concurrent to talking with Mesut. It’s bizarre.

 

 

“I do not understand Olivier.” Mesut tells Flamini one night, the two of them sprawled across Mesut’s futon watching some BBC panel show that neither of them are really following.

Mathieu blinks at him, confused.

“He says things and I feel he laughs at me.” Mesut elaborates, and then seeing Mathieu’s eyebrows knit together with the kind of determined look he gets before he marches over to punch opposing strikers in the throat he quickly adds, “No, maybe not laugh at me, but, ah, with himself? He says things but he has a different meaning than what I hear.”

Mathieu narrows his eyes. “I will talk to him.”

“No, Matte,” Mesut says, horrified, “it’s not-”

“Olivier is an idiot,” Mathieu tells him, flatly. “I will talk to him.”

 

 

Mesut arrives early to training the next day with the hope of heading off Mathieu before he can yell at Olivier for whatever imagined offence he has taken from Mesut’s attempt at explaining Olivier’s behaviour, but is too late and shows up at the field in time to see Flamini standing mere inches away from Olivier, the fierce expression in his eyes. He’s speaking very rapidly in French and Olivier is nodding, his eyebrows at their most sincere.

“Oui, oui, promis,” Olivier is saying in a placating tone. “t'inquiète pas, Mathieu.”

Mathieu fixes him with a piercing stare for a second, before nodding and backing down somewhat. Olivier smiles tentatively at him and Mathieu rolls his eyes, giving him a light punch on the shoulder.

Mesut hurries over to them.

“Good morning Mesut!” Olivier says, beaming at him. Mathieu rolls his eyes.

 

 

“What have you said to him?” Mesut demands later, stripping out of his training kit next to Mathieu in the dressing room.

“Nothing he does not need to hear.” Mathieu tells him cryptically, but he seems satisfied. “If he is terrible to you, tell me and I will break his leg, France be damned.”

Mesut is shocked by this treasonous threat so close to the World Cup, but also touched. It’s a very beautiful thing to do for someone, to break the leg of Olivier Giroud if necessary.

 

 

Aaron scores, and Wembley explodes. Mesut is vaguely aware of leaping up from the bench he’s barely sat down on, of his team mates leaping over each other in delight, of Wenger shouting from the tactical area, it’s not over yet, hold on, hold on, hold on.

Then the final whistle blows and everything goes a bit mad.

Mesut is caught up in a wave of red jerseys spilling out onto the field, Per seizes him and spins him around, there is roaring and-

“Mesut, you sparkle!” Olivier shouts enthusiastically, lunging forward from nowhere and grabbing at Mesut’s arm. “You are stars!”

Mesut laughs and lets Olivier hang off of him. “We are all stars!”

The lights are brilliant above the pitch.

 

 

Even if he hadn’t just witnessed him down the contents of approximately three bottles of champagne by himself Mesut would have known that Olivier was drunk by the way he walks, still all lanky grace but with a slight swing in his step as if he’s trying to skip but not quite getting there.

He drapes an arm over Mesut’s shoulder and sighs dramatically. “Will this never cease, my friend?”

Mesut has no idea what he’s talking about so he remains quiet. That’s usually the best course of action when dealing with a drunken Giroud, who was prone to long, emotional monologues. Not to mention that in his current state of floating exultant euphoria the only words he could bring to immediate use were mostly in German.

“I have complained to Mathieu – _my_ Mathieu, not yours- because I worry: am I forgetting my touch? I say to him, Debuch, am I not being _obvious_ , and he tells me I am being _disgustingly so_ , and that is _you_ who is creating the problem, my Mesut, not I, but it remains to be seen-” -here Olivier paused to take a sip from the glass he was waving about recklessly in the hand not attached to the arm around Mesut- “-if it is you do not understand or do not _want_ to understand.” He sighs again and gazes mournfully at the ceiling, where the glittering lights of the bar rented out for the specific purpose of team celebrations are scattering small reflections everywhere.

“Well, I do not understand now,” Mesut says, attempting for humour. He pats Olivier on the back. “I am sorry, my friend.”

“It is my own fault,” Olivier declares. “It is because we have been speaking in this language which does not permit for us to understand each other!” He widens his eyes tragically. Mesut hastily turns his laugh into a cough. Drunk Olivier was twice as melodramatic as normal Olivier, which was saying something.

“I think if you will let me,” Olivier is continuing, “I will use a more universal method of communication.”

Mesut is about to ask what on earth he could possibly mean when Olivier swings himself in front of Mesut, leans in, and- oh. _Oh._

Olivier pulls back from the kiss and looks at Mesut concernedly. “Is this okay?”

Mesut stares at him. Olivier blinks back.

“Mesut.”

“Olivier,” Mesut says, slowly, piecing things together as best he can and coming up with the picture, “next time. Next time- you should just skip over the English, and instead the, the.” Mesut wrinkles his brow in frustration. “I cannot find these words.”

Olivier laughs. “Then don’t,” he says, and swoops down to kiss Mesut again.

 


End file.
